The Naxids seemed startled by this unexpected movement, and scattered before his advance. The two ships he’d cut off were too isolated to take advantage of their sudden reprieve.
Squadron 17, once it had resumed its formation, made a similar movement, toward him. It had likewise cut off a pair of enemy, and likewise ignored them.
Martinez and Sula now found themselves with scattered enemy between their two fires. The two loyalist squadrons moved, dodged, fired. It was as if, without communicating with one another, they were moving in accordance with some higher version of Sula’s formula, one that encompassed the whole battle.
Martinez felt a stream of astonishment and delight. It was as if he and Sula were reading one another’s minds.
The ships darted like swallows.
Sulahad to be alive, he thought. No one else had the kind of genius that so thoroughly complimented his own.
The combat was like a ballet.
It was like telepathy.
It was like great sex.
Naxid ships flamed and died. The few that remained were scattered, and the loyalists could pick them off whenever they wanted.
Only the converted transports and the squadron facing Michi was still putting up resistance. Michi was fighting the Naxid heavy cruisers, better armed and better able to defend themselves, and though she’d destroyed four of them, she’d lost two of her own.
“Message to Captain Tantu,” Martinez said. “Take Division One and go after the converted transports. End message.”
Division 1 was four ships, including the two light cruisers. Division 2 was five frigates, includingCourage, and he was going to take it to Michi’s relief.
After expressing brief thanks for having at least half of his old command back, Tantu ordered his ships into a heavy acceleration for the transports, regrouping into a separate Martinez Method formation as he went.
Martinez swung his own five ships away from Sula’s squadron, rolling down on the Naxid heavies. Joy danced in his heart as he saw Sula detach four of her own ships and roll away from him with the remaining three, coming to Michi’s aid.
The Naxid heavies didn’t last long, attacked from three directions and by superior numbers. After that, ignoring the few Naxid warships that still danced around the perimeter of the fight, all of Chenforce went after the converted transports with everything they had.
The big ships didn’t last long either, particularly once they’d starburst. They were configured for offense, and their defensive abilities left a lot to be desired. In addition, Michi’s antiproton cannon kept blowing big chunks off them.
After that, the remaining Naxid warships were hunted down, one after another, and dispatched.
An anthem of triumph began to thunder in Martinez’s veins.
Chenforce had lost four ships to the enemy’s forty. His Squadron 31 had lost none.
In the course of the war, in the battles in which he’d either commanded a squadron or had an influence on the tactics, he had lost only one ship, at Protipanu.
He was as proud of that as of the victories themselves.
He didn’t count Second Magaria, where his advice had been ignored.
Tork could have that one, if he wanted it.
Before the last sphere of plasma had cooled and dispersed, Michi called for a simultaneous conference between herself and Chandra, Martinez, and Sula.
Michi and Chandra looked weary but exultant in their virtual images, sagging in their vac suits but glowing with victory.
Sula appeared spattered with blood.
Martinez looked at her in shock. He remembered her appearance in bloody body armor after the Battle of the High City, and wondered if she’d decided to specialize in dramatic entrances.
“Are you all right, Lady Sula?” Michi asked.
“Yes. I had a nosebleed under high gee.”
Sula’s tone was curt and dismissive. Michi changed the subject.
“I need a report from all ships on the number of remaining missiles. I need to know if we can fight those three enemy ships that just entered the system.”
“I happen to have the figures,” Sula said. “My ships’ magazines average nine percent of full capacity.”
“My ships range between three and six percent,” Michi said. Her gaze flickered to Martinez. “And Squadron Thirty-one?”
“Ah,” Martinez said, “I’ll check. But I don’t suppose our numbers are much better.”
Michi looked grim. “If those three big ships are like the others, they’ll be able to fire off six hundred missiles in each salvo.”
That, Martinez thought, was going to make fighting them very difficult indeed.
Stupid to die, fighting a trio of improvised warships, just because you’re at the end of your logistical tether and you don’t have anything to shoot at them.
“My lady,” he said, “may I suggest that you make your surrender demand extremely convincing?”
Determination crossed Michi’s face. “Yes,” she said. “I’ll make it clear that if we’re fired on, Naxas burns. We’ve got enough missiles forthat.” She looked at someone off-camera—presumably Chandra, because Chandra also looked off-camera.
“I’ll want a list of the twenty-five largest cities on Naxas,” Michi said.
“Yes, my lady.”
“Better make it fifty. And I’d like demographic data as well, so we can be sure to pay special attention to smoking any Naxid neighborhoods.”
Chandra hid a smile. “Yes, my lady.”
Michi’s demand for unconditional surrender went out in the clear, both to Naxas and to the oncoming ships. It would be nearly three hours before Naxas could reply. Chenforce took aboard its surviving pinnaces, recovered the few missiles that hadn’t yet found something to blow up, and began repairing the minor damage taken by some of the ships in the fight.
Martinez took a shower to wash off the scent of his suit seals and invited Captain Dalkeith to a celebratory dinner. That seemed fair, since after all he was dining in her cabin.
“I wish I had your cook,” Dalkeith said in her breathless child’s voice. She looked at the black specks in her fluffy scrambled eggs, which Perry had laid on a bed of fragrant preserved seaweed. “Are those truffles?”
Martinez didn’t know.
He was back in Auxiliary Command at the earliest possible moment that Naxas could reply. No answer came, not even an acknowledgment.
Minutes ticked by. The air in Auxiliary Command began to seem hot and close. The bodies of the crew, liberated from the confines of vac suits, combined to give the room a sour, combusted scent, all save Khanh, who wore far too much lime-scented cologne.
Martinez heard chatter in the background as Chandra gave the weapons officers targeting information for the fifty largest cities of Naxas. He thought about how to fight those three big ships with their limitless supply of ammunition.
“Squadcom wants another conference, my lord.” Falana’s fingers jabbed at the touch pads on his display.
“I’ll go virtual.”
The same three faces appeared in the display. Michi and Chandra looked scrubbed and refreshed, but Martinez didn’t spare them more than a glance. Instead he stared at Sula. She was breathtaking—beautiful and polished and perfect. She wore understated Fleet undress, and the dark sensor cap and its chin strap framed her face and made it seem to glow. Suddenly he could scent a phantom memory of her perfume.
“I’ve given them an hour,” Michi said. Her angry voice snapped Martinez out of his trance. “I think that’s enough. We’ll launch our missiles for Naxas. Time the impacts for a hundred twenty minutes from now, so they can see it coming at them and have time to think about it.”
“That will give them extra time to evacuate their cities,” Chandra pointed out.
“The living will envy the dead,” Sula said. Her voice was hard.
Martinez looked at her again, and wondered where that cold anger had come from. He knew her anger well enough, but he remembered it as hot. He remembered her as insecure, as clumsy in formal situations, as passionate in bed.